were already on their homeward voyage--nay, it might even be that
they were just arriving, or had arrived, in London. The one clear
point was that Vaughan must get home. Twenty miles on his landlord's
pony brought him to a telegraph-office, whence he telegraphed to
his servant, "Returning immediately," and then, setting his face
southward, he travelled as fast as steamers and express trains
would take him. As he travelled, he picked up the news. Peace had
been concluded on the 30th of March, and some of our troops were
homeward bound; some had actually arrived. The journey seemed
unnaturally long, and it was dark when the train rattled into Euston
Station.... In a bewildered mood of uncertainty and joy, he rang
the bell in Mount Street. His servant opened the door. "You're
just in time, sir. You will find him in the drawing-room."

The drawing-room of the lodging-house had always been Grey's
sitting-room, and during his absence Vaughan had studiously kept it
in it accustomed order. There were some stags' heads on the walls,
and a fox's brush with a label; a coloured print of Harrow, and
engravings of one or two Generals whom Grey had specially honoured
as masters of the art of war; the book-case, the writing-desk,
the rather stiff furniture, were just as he had left them. Philip
flung open the door with a passionate cry of "Arthur! Arthur! At
last! Thank God----" But the words died on his lips.

In the middle of the room, just under the central chandelier, there
was a coffin supported by trestles, with its foot towards the door.
On the white pillow there lay the still whiter face of a corpse,
and it was the corpse of Arthur Grey.

* * * * *